Page 61 of Trailer Park Billionaire (Distinguished Billionaires #3)

EPILOGUE

T he new building still smells a little bit like fresh paint and the kind of hope that clings to new walls.

It looms now where the trailer park once slumped.

Now it’s a six-story monument to second chances, stubborn hope, and questionable funding.

The bricks are warm red, the balconies already spilling over with greenery like a middle finger to the past, and the air carries the quiet hum of lives beginning anew.

“Just leave the it by the door,” Elaine huffs, dragging a rolling suitcase over the threshold of her new apartment. “I should rearrange everything myself anyway.”

“Right,” I say, sweating through my shirt and put down a heavy box, “because nothing says ‘fresh start’ like a herniated disc.”

“Ha!” she huffs again. “I got built in prison, dear. I can move a little furniture by myself without a problem. Maybe you should try going to prison too to get a little fitter yourself.”

Helena stands in the center of the living room, surveying the space.

Sunlight cuts through the tall windows, right onto the mural she painted on the biggest wall.

It’s a copy of a painting her grandpa once created.

Three mismatched mugs sit on the counter, beside three boxes of pizza and a container of coconut rice cakes I made yesterday.

Elaine turns in a slow circle, arms crossed over her chest. Her prison-issued beige has been replaced by a purple cardigan and jeans that don’t fit quite right. She really did get fit in there. Her hair is longer now. Grayer, but looser. She looks younger than she did behind bars.

“You like it?” Helena asks.

Elaine doesn’t answer immediately. She walks to the nearest window, opens it. Listens to the construction noise and children yelling from the courtyard below. Then she turns. “No. I love it,” she says with a wide smile.

Helena steps over and wraps her arms around her. “Welcome home, Mom. It’s good to finally have you here.”

Elaine lets out a jagged breath. Then she melts into her daughter.

Two years of visitations, of cold plastic chairs and weekly check-ins.

Two years of sitting on opposite sides of bulletproof glass, then opposite sides of the same table.

Two years of muffins and stories and sharing memories slowly mending into something tender.

And now, here they are. Hugging in the living room of an apartment built with money gained from selling stolen paintings.

I give them a moment and continue bringing up boxes with the furniture Elaine chose.

When I return, I interrupt their hug by dropping a box with a loud grunt.

“Ben,” Elaine says my name dryly, wiping her eyes. “You need to lift from your legs, not your spine.”

“Why? I’m trying to get a herniated disc as well. Maybe we could go to rehab together.”

Helena shoots me a look.

I shake my head. “Not that kind of rehab. That’s not?—”

Elaine just laughs and places a kiss on her daughter’s head. Then the two of them start unpacking.

Outside, the gallery is buzzing. Helena’s gallery.

Whitewashed walls, soft lights, and an in-house café where I spend more time giving away food than charging for it.

The back patio hosts art classes. The front is always full of neighbors gossiping over coffee.

Everyone who lived in the trailer park now owns their own apartment.

The side entrance, for some reason, hosts raccoons that are part of the community as well.

“Cookie, please!” a tiny, authoritative voice echoes from the hallway.

Iris is standing in the doorway of Elaine’s apartment, arms crossed like she owns the place. Helena laughs quietly.

“Don’t you knock?” I ask, crossing my arms in turn.

Iris narrows her eyes. “Don’t you bake?”

I can’t help but join in on Helena’s laugh, then I get the tin from the counter. “Try this. It’s called khao nom kok, a rice cake recipe from Laos. Just one though. That’s enough sugar for you today.”

Iris grabs one of the round treats, inspects it like it might be poison, then bites. Her little eyebrows lift with pleasant surprise. “Huh. You do bake. Well done, Benpa.”

I bow to thank her for the compliment.

“I like her,” Elaine whispers to Helena when a knock at the open door pulls our attention.

Sienna and Ryker, all warm smiles and mismatched energy, step in holding a houseplant and a stack of papers. “Just wanted to make sure our favorite parolee has settled in,” he grunts more than anything while Sienna smiles brightly.

Elaine walks over to greet them both. “Only lawyer I know who brings gifts and legal disclaimers in the same hand. Though to be fair, you are the only lawyer I know in general.” Then she greets Olivia and Phoenix who walk in right after—bearing more welcoming gifts—and to help set up her new furniture.

Sienna’s husband, Ryker, had managed to get Elaine the deal that made it possible for her to move in here after only two years behind bars. My family will stay there much longer.

Eventually, the day drifts into something slower. Iris disappears along with the tin of cookies. Phoenix, Ryker, and I move heavy tables and beds, and wardrobes around the apartment. Olivia, Sienna, and Helena fill the place with plates, and mugs, and photo frames, and life.

That night, we all gather on the rooftop garden, string lights flickering overhead, music sounding from the speakers. I may or may not burn some stuff on the grill, Elaine drinks seltzer out of a wine glass, and we all share stories about how we ended up here.

Here. In our home.

We built this. From rubble. All of us.

Patched. Repainted. Unrecognizable to what it was.

Eventually, the rooftop thins out.

Olivia and Phoenix have to get up early in the morning to work on some book they’re collaborating on.

When Sienna leaves, she hugs Helena so tightly, they nearly stumble and fall over the grill.

Ryker catches them just in time and then carries Sienna to their car.

Elaine gives both of us a kiss and heads to her new apartment.

And then it’s just the two of us, the fairy lights glowing soft around us. Below, the courtyard simmers with light from the apartments above it. A raccoon knocks something over by the gallery entrance.

Helena’s looking out over the city like it might disappear if she blinks first, her hair flowing in the wind, her shoulders loose. She exhales like she’s finally figured out how to relax again.

I brush a strand of hair behind her ear.

She turns. And smiles.

It’s not the smile from our early days—tight and skeptical and barbed with defenses. It’s not even the cautious grin she wore when she saw me picking her up after work.

It’s something else now.

“We did it,” I murmur.

She nods. “I know.”

“And I think we’re… pretty happy,” I say, because it still feels like a revelation.

She snorts. “I know, right? Who would have thought?”

I laugh, pulling her closer, breathing her in. “So, what do we do with all this joy?”

She leans in on tippy toes, against me, into me. Then she presses her forehead to mine. “I think we live in it. And annoy everyone around us by being disgustingly in love.”

My hand finds the small of her back. Her fingers curl into the hem of my shirt.

I kiss her. Slow. Careful. With the knowledge that she’s mine. That she’ll stay mine forever.

When we pull apart, she whispers, “You know, I usually don’t do this, considering the innocent little woman I am. But how do you feel about coming home with me?”

“And here I was thinking I already lived with that innocent little woman,” I answer, grinning.

“Oh, good. Then you should know how to take me home.” Helena jumps into my arms, her own wrapped around my neck, her legs around my waist.

Like that, we take the elevator down, giggling like teenagers when I press her against the walls, kissing her all over her neck.

In the apartment, she kicks off her shoes.

I follow suit, socks slipping on the polished floor.

The hallway is scattered with boxes we haven’t unpacked yet and a few paintings I could swear weren’t there yesterday.

Inside our place, everything is warm wood, and soft linens, and mismatched furniture that we bought from flea markets over the last two years.

There’s a half-eaten croissant on the counter.

One of Helena’s sketches of me and a baguette is pinned to the fridge.

A picture of Alex at the groundbreaking ceremony hangs next to it.

A photo of us with Elaine at the prison visitation booth adorns one of the shelves that’s already up, all of us smiling. Helena has the same smile as her mom. Next to it, sits the urn paint can of Edward Frame.

Mid-kiss, she makes me pause in the middle of the living room, her eyes scanning the space. “You know,” she says, “for someone who used to live in a trailer, always on the run, you’ve turned into a pretty great domestic partner. A great domestic partner in crime.”

I chuckle and force my lips off her neck for a moment. “Is that so?” I murmur. “I think we should focus on the important things right now. Namely, that I’m also a pretty great partner in bed.”

She tilts her head up, eyes gleaming. Her mouth more mischievous than before. “You are…” she nods slowly, “definitely in my top twenty.”

I kiss her neck again, then bite it a little, making her moan with pain and pleasure alike. “Oh yeah? Which one of your imaginary boyfriends was better than me?”

“All the ones I’ll have to make up if you don’t start fucking me soon.”

I kiss her again. And this time it’s more than just a kiss. It’s a homecoming. A promise. A reminder that she is mine, and I am hers.

It doesn’t take long until that kiss turns into something else, something hungry, something sinful.